


Uh, Ouch?

by stuckybarnes



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is a minor, Precious Peter Parker, Prompt Fill, Sassy Peter, Spideypool - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, don’t ship this, it’s just sweet and deadpool is a good lad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: Wherein Peter is still painfully new at being Spider-Man, and Deadpool finds him beat to hell on a roof and, well,  does his best.





	Uh, Ouch?

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! this is a prompt fill for @unsolvedwheezing on instagram, who won one of my prompt fill contests :) sorry it took so long!

In the history of Peter’s bad days, this topped the list, _for sure._

It was late, past midnight, and Peter had snuck out of his bedroom window to patrol as Spider-Man as usual. He’d been doing this for nearly a year now, after he got bit. Sure, he’s still learning the full extent of his powers, but he has the basics under control, and it’s his responsibility to help people in need, even if he _did_ have advanced calculus homework due tomorrow. It was a lot to handle at first, at only fifteen-years-old, but being Spider-Man filled Peter with a sense of purpose and pride. Like he finally _belonged_ somewhere in his little corner of New York.

He felt safe and strong when he sat crouched and waiting on the very edge of high-up roofs. The breeze against his mask, the chatter of a million people, the distant blaring of traffic felt like true belonging. New York City rooftops were both anonymous and strong. Peter could spend hours on rooftops during patrols.

Except this time there weren’t bank robberies or purse-snatchers or pushy drunk men in back alleys that Peter had to take care of.

The night had been pretty boring at the beginning of his patrol, and he found himself perched on a rooftop for at least half an hour, mask rolled up halfway, eyes closed and head tipped peacefully up to the wind. Boring, sure, but these were also usually his only moments of peace during the week.

It wasn’t until Peter’s _(borrowed_ , not stolen) police radio scanner burst to life that his head perked up and his eyes snapped open.

_“We’ve got potential mutant activity in Astoria, by the movie theater. Some guy with a glove is causing some trouble. Folks think it’s some sort of promotional tactic for a new movie out.”_

Peter scrunched up his nose, pulling his mask down over his head. “Guy with a _glove?”_ Peter hummed. That didn’t seem too intimidating at all. He wonders briefly if the NYPD had finally given up trying to protect the city entirely.

Nevertheless, he pulled himself up, took a breath, and dropped from the roof. His body parted the wind and neared the hard pavement at a startling speed before Peter shot a web and deftly curled his body, swinging around an apartment complex and toward Astoria. He couldn’t help the smile that pressed against his mask, releasing the web and flipping in the air. He let himself drop before catching himself again, shouting a giddy _“wahoo!”_ into the brisk night air.

It turned out that gloves can be pretty decent weapons. As soon as Peter swung onto the block of the movie theater, he knew something was wrong, his spidey-senses sending a sharp tingle through his spine. He didn’t have enough time to change directions before swinging into the alcove the theater’s entrance was positioned in, and as soon as he dropped down onto the scene a massive metal glove was slammed into his chest. The breath had rushed out of him, throwing him several feet back and skidding down across the thankfully empty asphalt street. Everybody was at least a block away now with the police barriers put up.

“You hero-types think you’re so _special!_ So _grandiose!_ All rich, not a care in the world!” The man hissed, face hidden under a hood.

Peter groaned in pain, gloved hands propping himself up from the ground. “Dude. Why do you think we only come out at _night?_ We have _jobs._ Y’know, like regular people who have to work and go to school and stuff? I’ve got, like, five dollars in my wallet. And that’s pushing it.”

The man ignored him with fervor. Peter didn’t have time to worry about Tony having an aneurysm over the scraped back of his suit, because as soon as he got up the man with the glove was fighting with him again. Peter blocked each hit for the most part, even caught his fist a few times, but his bones rattled at the strength the glove created, ached his wrists and arms. For a few precious moments, the glove seemed too weak to break from Peter’s webbing, until it did. The man himself was just a human with some training - the _glove_ was the problem; able to produce an incredible amount of jarring strength that Peter couldn’t expect.

When Peter was finally getting an edge up on the man, finally tiring him out, the man pressed a button on the palm of his glove, and a high-pitched sound filled Peter’s ears. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard, and nobody else seemed phased. But Peter’s knees almost locked as he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes tight, willing his tears back. _God._ His teeth were ringing, it was so strong. His brain felt like it was trying to escape through his ears, his bones rattling with the sound.

Peter’s heightened senses were good in battle, sure, but they also made him hypersensitive to sound and light all the rest of the time. Bruce promised it would get a little better as he got older, learned to control his senses more, but as of right now… they were, for lack of a better word, _fucking him up._

The man took this time to land one solid punch to his jaw, throwing him back against the asphalt again. More than his suit got torn that time, and Peter could feel the sharp sting of the skin on his back and ribs tearing. The figure was approaching him quickly, and all Peter could do was press his hands to his ears tightly and inch back on the ground. He heard a sudden _shink_ sound, and one look at the glove told Peter that tiny metal barbs erupted from the knuckles.

Peter sprayed a thick cord of webbing across the man’s face, and it knocked him back a few feet, but he landed a swinging punch and hit Peter hard in the belly. It knocked him back down into the asphalt and Peter let out a stifled cry, looking down at himself. The front of his suit was shredded in claw-like strips, blood pooling around the shallow slashes and seeping through the surrounding fabric of his suit.

Peter felt like his brain was going to explode if the ringing in his ears got any louder. That, or he’d bleed out. Whichever came first. Eyes shut tight against the onslaught of sensory overload, Peter picked himself up and used his heightened senses to blindly shoot a web at where he knew the man to be. He caught his leg, yanking him toward Peter through the air, and right into Peter’s closed fist.

The man toppled, half conscious. Peter narrowed his eyes, snatched the glove off his hand, dropped it on the ground, and stepped on the hard metal material. The glove flattened under his strength, electrical currents zapping briefly while the metal continued to warp, until the glove was totally flat, pressed into the concrete, and the high-pitched frequency finally, _finally,_ stopped.

“You young fool. You… you think this will stop us? Us who cannot _stand_ the heroes?” The man slurred, blood in his mouth dribbling onto the floor.

The ringing in his ears was far from gone, and the world was twisting and turning and tunneling in his eyes. Peter stumbled, rolls his eyes. “Join a _club,_ dude! Don’t whine about it to civilians and use dangerous tech. I don’t - I don’t wanna _hear_ it!” Peter spat through ragged breaths.

One hand clutched protectively to his side, fingers squelching with blood, Peter used the other to wrap the man’s wrists and ankles tight with webs, letting him roll around semi-awake and very annoyed. He stumbled, squinting at the growing crowd several yards back. “You,” he pointed blindly at a lady towards the front of the crowd. “Can you call the cops? I gotta go.” She nodded hastily, already dialing. Many others did, too.

Now, Peter swings away fast, like, _really_ fast, because he isn’t sure what it feels like when someone is about to faint, but he’s guessing it feels a lot like how he does right now. And it _hurts,_ swinging away so fast, so haphazardly. Tony tells him he should be careful swinging; his spinnerets are muscles, and _new_ muscles at that, and swinging too quickly or without bracing himself can pull muscles.

Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh _god._ This isn’t good. Hundreds of yards up in the air, soaring through apartment complexes, Peter can feel the cuts on his side open painfully with each swing. Blood dribbles down his belly and thighs in delicate trickles, warm and dark and _not supposed to be there._

He gets as close to home as possible until raising his arms and twisting his body hurts too much, until the pain is making his vision go dark around the edges. With each swing, his body feels heavier on his wrists. When he lands, it’s on a somewhat familiar rooftop, and he can only hope he was going in the right direction towards home. It’s past one in the morning when he finally drops down onto the roof, legs giving out as he drops to his hands and knees. He manages to shoot several thin webs over his side, closing the wounds with makeshift sutures.

Peter’s breath is choppy in his lungs, panic crawling up his throat. Quickly, Peter pulls his mask up around the bridge of his nose, taking in greedy lungfuls of air. But he breaks down into sobs again, ragged breaths shaking his body. With the ringing in his ears, the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat.

 _Oh! But,_ Peter tries to think positively, _at least I still_ have _a heartbeat._

With the last of his effort, Peter reminds himself to be at least thankful that he told Aunt May that he was sleeping over at Ned’s and going straight to school from there the next morning; she would’ve been horrified if he weren’t in his bed, and Peter couldn’t do that to her.

Still, though. He’s _scared._ He’s really scared. And he never lets Mister Stark know it, because he loves being Spider-Man at the same time, and he’s so grateful. He barely even lets Aunt May know, because he has to be brave for her.

But he’s _scared._ “Ouch,” he whines, ragged and heaving.

Peter must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up somewhere that is very distinctly _not_ a rooftop at midnight. His body hurts, _bad,_ and his spidey-senses didn’t wake him up in searing pain down his spine, so he stays where he is for the moment. His ears still ring, but it’s nowhere near as excruciating as before.

He’s laying down somewhere soft and springy, and he’s abundantly warm, covered up to his chin in a thick quilt. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Instead, he takes a cautionary breath, and then deeper, inhaling greedily. The air around him smells faintly of gunpowder, and the cogs and gears in his brain are too foggy, too tired, to do anything with the information yet. 

He should get up, he knows. He should bolt upright and run, because _this is not his house._ But he takes solace in the fact that his spidey-senses are calm, sated and sleepy in the base of his neck.

Warily, he draws his hands down, pressing, inspecting, taking note with cold fingertips. Everything hurts under his touch, like the pain he feels when his entire body is bruised, or when his senses are going haywire and every touch feels like a punch.

There are thick gauzy bandages taped over his stomach, and something tight wrapped across his ribs. Tight bandages are wrapped around each wrist, looping around his thumbs, and he’s pretty sure there’s some kind of tape on his nose.

Beaten up patrolling? _Bad._

Dropping unconscious on a roof somewhere? _Double-bad._

Waking up in a stranger’s home, bandaged up? _Weirdly still really bad._

It’s like he wakes up suddenly. His eyes widen, cheeks growing hot in panic. He can feel too much, can feel the scrape of the soft quilt against his body. He has no clothes on. He’s missing his _suit_ \- someone took it off.

Naked, except for his underwear? _Really super bad._

When he looks, really looks, narrows his eyes against the creeping darkness the quilt provides, he sees dried half-wiped blood around his inner thighs. For a brief moment, his vision blackens at the thought of something happening to him while unconscious, of this person… _doing_ something. His eyes well with tears when he thinks about how stupid he must have been for even thinking for a _moment_ waking up bandaged in a foreign home could possibly turn out well for him. He’s such a _child._ And to think this was one of his first real solo patrols.

But then he thinks, really thinks, and remembers all the blood dripping down from his stomach and onto his thighs from swinging home that injured. And it occurs to him that maybe the person whose house he’s in didn’t want to _touch_ him there, didn’t want to overstep as long as it’s not where he was hurt.

Okay. _Okay,_ Peter thinks, _okay. This is fine. I’m fine._

But now his arms jerk up to his face suddenly, and he lets out a relieved but painful exhale when he feels the fabric of his mask over his eyes, rolled up over his nose. Whoever this was, they weren’t interested in his identity, or taking advantage of him. If anything, Peter thinks as he peers down at his abdomen once more, they actually did a _really_ good job patching him up, despite the frankly alarming condition of the living room he’s in.

There are pizza boxes in one corner of the room, and empty soda cans, all stashed away like they were in a hurry to make things somewhat presentable for the unconscious kid they brought in. There’s a water stain in the corner above the large television. On the coffee table beside him, there are oily rags, a gun, one sheathed serrated knife. And, separate from all the mess, a tall glass of water closest to him, with a sticky-note smiley face underneath it.

Peter blinks. There’s so much contradiction already from this stranger’s home, and this is only what’s in his line of sight. His head pounds mercilessly, and a weak sound escapes him that he flushes at immediately after.

A sound erupts from the kitchen, which in hindsight is the ice machine, but Peter jolts off the couch, his bottom landing on the hardwood floor with a _thump,_ blanket all but abandoned. The pain is… a lot. His wrists throb from where he braced his hands on the floor, his ribs screaming with every new inhale. The gauze on his abdomen crinkles, and thin jagged lines of fresh blood blot the stark white material, spreading out around the taped corners. Blood rushes in his head and for a moment all he can hear are his own fast breaths and a ringing in his ears.

“Finally! _Shit._ I thought you were gonna die on my couch. I would’ve cried like a baby, that’s for damn sure.”

Peter looks up suddenly, and _oh._

He’s tall, very tall, which Peter already knew. But it’s so much more _imposing_ when Peter is flat on his ass on the ground. He’s wearing his black and red suit, thick scuffed material, pouches on his belt and holsters on his sides and thighs. His mask is gone, revealing tight, scarred skin, and in his massive hands is a delicately-held glass filled with ice and lemonade, a pink umbrella sticking out of the cup.

Deadpool. Peter knows Deadpool. No, Peter doesn’t know anyone; _Spider-Man_ knows Deadpool. They’ve barely spoken fifty words to each other, but sometimes he runs into Deadpool during patrols and gives a helping hand, or the Avengers occasionally ask him to tag along on missions when they need more… _flexible_ help. But Peter never stuck around much, despite sharing easy banter, and Deadpool having a surprising modicum of respect for Spider-Man, which Mister Stark told him was _“a huge deal”_ and _“frankly a bit alarming.”_

But Peter still knows he’s a mercenary, a _ruthless_ mercenary, the best of his kind. Except, he helps the Avengers and Spider-Man sometimes, and has a surprisingly sound moral code he won’t break. And now, he apparently just hauled a beaten, bloody, and unconscious Peter into his home and took _care_ of him.

God. His brain is pounding. Does this still count as _stranger danger?_

Deadpool takes a step toward Peter, but stops suddenly, _respectfully,_ and sits down on the couch instead when Peter scrambles back. “Ah, it’s okay. That happens sometimes when people realize it’s me, it’s all good,” Wade waves it away good-naturedly, taking a noisy sip of his drink.

Peter tries to pace his breaths, to calm down, because if Deadpool wanted him dead he would’ve _left him for dead on the roof._ But it’s a lot, and it’s a lot all at once in a new place with new injuries, and he’s kind of absolutely _sure_ he’s gonna wake up late for school tomorrow.

His back is pressed against the nearest wall by now, dry and cool against his hot skin. He didn’t realize how warm he was.

 _“Anywho,_ I’m a big fan, Spidey. Seriously. Like, you’re so cool. And badass, swingin’ around and being freaky strong. Plus you’re gorgeous - y’know, in a totally not-creepy way ‘cause you’re a kid and I’m not a monster, that’s horrible and I...”

Peter’s only partly listening now, because his eyes are drawn down to his body and he can’t help but look at himself, really see just how bad it could’ve been. He cuts Deadpool off without much thought.

“Thanks.” His voice comes out raw and rasped.

Deadpool blinks. Like he isn’t used to the sincerity.

Peter coughs. “Thank you, Deadpool. For… for finding me and patching me up.”

Deadpool… blinks again. The hand holding his drink twitches and the ice inside it rattles, skewing the little umbrella.

“I…” Peter takes an incriminating hitched breath. It was _scary._ He’s _scared._ But Deadpool is a mercenary trained to read people; he knows that already. “I didn't know this was gonna happen. I wasn’t expecting to get this hurt, and I deactivated Mister Stark’s tracker in my suit because I was being dumb but it could’ve gotten me killed tonight, and I have school tomorrow, and Flash is probably gonna throw me into a locker which I do not need right now _obviously,_ but I can’t even defend myself because it would reveal my strength and I could really hurt him _-”_

Peter cuts himself off abruptly when Deadpool clears his throat and lowers himself onto the floor, sliding over to Peter. “Alright, I’m gonna stop you right there, Baby Spice.” He holds both hands out placating, before pressing two fingers to the pulse at his neck and humming.

And then, _no_ \- he’s not humming, he’s breathing very pointedly, looking at Peter with expectant and really awkward eyes. “You’re fine, Webs, it’s all good,” Wade says softly, only a little manic-looking, which is a feat. But Peter copies his breaths. Again and again and again until he doesn’t have to anymore, until his breathing is paced and even and each breath isn’t sending his ribs into agony.

“Tomorrow’s another story and can frankly suck it right now,” he waves off before peering down at the gauze on Peter’s stomach. “So. Those scratches were pretty nasty. Not deep, though. So I cleaned ‘em out, taped them together with butterfly bandages, smacked some antibacterial cream on there, and then threw some gauze on. That’s all you gotta do,” Wade starts, talking excitedly between Peter’s feet, occasionally lifting up Peter’s arm or leg or poking at him to emphasize what he’s saying.

Peter listens for the most part, but he finds exhaustion settling over him, calm and sated and warm.

“... So I just wrapped your wrists, ‘cause you kept whining when you put any pressure on them when you were half-conscious, and I really don’t know how to handle spinnerets. They’re precious and super cool, don’t get me wrong…”

Peter smiles, rolling his wrists experimentally. He presses his two fingers to his palm, but hisses at the sensation. Wade snatches Peter’s hands and splays them open again before continuing.

Peter was just wondering if the wetness in his mouth was snot or blood when he focuses back into what Deadpool was saying.

“... was _gonna_ clean up the blood on your thighs from your stomach wounds,” at this, he points in a circular gesture to Peter’s lap, “but you were knocked out and I was _not_ about to be _that_ guy.”

Peter knows what _that guy_ means.

“I kill _those guy,”_ Wade supplies, in case Peter had doubts. He didn’t have doubts.

He picks at the flakey streaks of blood now absentmindedly. “Thanks.”

Wade nods, crunching on a piece of ice from his cup.

Then, “I’m not scared of you.”

Wade looks at him, brows raised. “Pretty sure people say you should be,” he counters.

“Should I be?” Peter curls his toes, watching Deadpool curiously, too tired to fight back but too childish to shut up.

A trace of a smile passes Deadpool’s mouth, riant, like he isn’t sure about whether to chase it or keep the straight face of a trained mercenary. “You? Nah.”  

He smiles knowingly, content with the answer. Peter picks at the frayed hems of his bandages, body lax against the wall. The skin around each wound is sore to the very touch, and he can’t help but curl his lips.

“I managed to wedge some Motrin down your mouth when you were kinda-sorta awake. You insisted on taking five. I figured you knew what you were doing and didn’t have a drug problem. That would, uh, be not good.”

The laugh that breaks from him sends shocks of pain down his ribs and across his abdomen, head pounding in time with each breath. He makes a weak noise in his throat. Wade shifts around uncomfortably, the leather of his suit creaking.

”I... yeah, no. No drug problem. I metabolize everything really fast. That Motrin wore off before I even woke up,” he says mournfully. 

Wade tips his head up in acknowledgment. “Lucky for your little spider butt, I have a veritable _mountain_ of pain meds. I only ever need them for this beauty you see before you,” he gestures to his body, the scars on his face. 

Peter watches him, but Wade saves him before he has the chance to answer. “I guess that means you’ll heal faster too, huh? Pretty neat. Not as fast as my mutated ass, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine soon. You even stopped bleeding pretty quick. It’ll be okay. Just don’t do anything dumb for a few days,” Wade shrugs.

”But you’ll be okay, Web Head.” 

When Peter falls asleep again, it comes as a surprise, slowly sinking into the calescent safety of Deadpool’s apartment until he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open against Wade’s veritable tidal wave of mindless rambling.

Deadpool only stops talking when he’s sure Spider-Man is asleep again, head slumped back against the wall and lips parted soundly. Quietly, he pulls himself off the floor, leaning down to pick up Peter. He doesn’t weigh much, but Wade can’t say it surprises him; he’s basically an acrobat. An acrobat with school tomorrow.

He only stops worrying when he’s dropped Peter back onto the couch, checked his bandages for new blood, and wrapped the blanket around him. Sitting on the very edge of the couch so as not to jostle Peter, Deadpool finds his phone.

_Come get your spider. He has school tomorrow and I’m pretty sure that makes you a shit parent. Especially since I’m the one who doctor-ed him the eff up. - DP_

_Jesus Christ. - TS_

_I don’t think he’s Catholic? - DP_

Deadpool gets a call approximately two seconds later. He doesn’t get a word in before Tony is erupting. “Where’s the kid?”

“You’re way too small to sound this angry, Stark. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t hurt him. I’m not a monster,” he almost spat, but glances down at Spider-Man, sleeping, and took a breath.

“He’s at my apartment. Don’t pretend like you don’t know where it is, you pretty little stalker, you.”

There’s a gruff “be right there,” and then Tony hangs up.

 _“Dick,”_ Deadpool huffs.

It’s three days later when Peter unwraps his wrists, sitting cross-legged on his bed with the door shut. Black ink on the bandage catches his eye, and Peter delicately spreads the gauze out, running it through his fingers until he finds the writing.

_If you get royally beat up again in the middle of the night, text me. I’ll play cavalry again!_

_-XOXO, Wade (Deadpool) (The Mercenary) (Merc with a Mouth) (Expert Ouchie Fixer-Upper)_

_P.S. Lemme talk to that bully from school._

Attached is a number, and Peter has that giddy excitement of making a new, albeit volatile, friend.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, i thrive off comments! if you liked that, check out my other works!
> 
> instagram: petr.prkr  
> tumblr: petr-prkr
> 
> for prompt commissions, email me at leo.misislyan@gmail.com


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